Robin, the Asshole
by ThirdStrike
Summary: Meaning: Either a person's anus or a stupid, irritating or contemptible person. Robin prefers the term 'Enlightened'
1. Chapter 1

**A side project of sorts, one that is used to wrestle me from times where I'm unable to put forth words I want.**

* * *

Robin is an asshole.

That's the conclusion that Chrom's sleep-addled brain makes after the condescending lecture given to from the Shepherd's newest tactician. He really doesn't need an hour-long lecture on _trade routes_ at _four in the morning_.

"Chrom." Robin cuts through his thoughts like a blade to the flesh. "Are you even listening?" He stares at the prince from his position across the table. They're alone in the office of Ferox, where they've been granted a stay until the tournament's conclusion.

Chrom resists the urge to snap at the younger man. He has less than ten minutes to get away from the command tent, grab some modicum of breakfast before making it in time for Frederick's Fanatical Fitness Hour.

The tactician's _still _talking about bread.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm listening. Wheat trades and whatnot-" He waves off the white-haired man, slouching in his chair as Robin's eyes narrow.

"That was twenty minutes ago, I've moved onto our weapon supplies. You know, the thing that you're _always _complaining about like a Naga's damned housewife?"

It's so easy to dislike Robin. Chrom finds himself teetering by the abyss of loathing each and every day, but he knows that Robin means well. That he's just slightly more problematic out of their already-flawed bunch.

"_Gods. _You're going to be the future Exalt one day and you can't even listen to one talk? You'll have a coup before your uncaring ass even notices your country's problems."

It's so, so, _so _very easy to dislike him.

"Look-" He pauses Robin's vent with one of his own, almost letting venom leak into his tone. "I know you're just trying to help, I'm grateful. Really. But not when you do this at _four _in the Naga's damned morning!"

"So? What's the problem?"

Oh, how much joy he'd get from sinking his face right into his stom- Chrom clears his throat, both creating a lull in the conversation and to stop the voice in his head. Somewhere below them, Frederick is banging against doors, bellowing orders to make to the fields in five.

"It's just that, I'm really not a morning person in general; so-"

"So what? This is the future of your country you're talking about, missing a few hours of sleep isn't going to harm you any less than it does to the country." Chrom knows that they're both starting to get irritated at each other now, seconds from biting at each other's neck. Their discussions always end up like this, it's inevitable with someone like Robin.

"Yes, a few hours of sleep missing _won't _harm me, but they start to do after _two consecutive weeks_!" Chrom takes a deep breath to calm down, Robin isn't even phased by the sudden irritation.

"I don't see a problem; you sleep at _eleven _and you're woken at _four _in the morning, five hours is plentiful." Robin's starting to let irritation flash on his face as he stands up from his desks, leaning over to glare at Chrom.

"The _problem _is, that I'm not a machine, really." He winces internally as he speaks slowly as if conversing with a child. This isn't making the situation any better. Robin's eyes narrow at the implication. "So waking me up at four in the morning to discuss trade routes - which could literally be done over breakfast - isn't _exactly _ideal, yeah?"

Okay, maybe that was a bit too far. But before Chrom can utter any word of apology, Robin nods slowly to his statement, slamming the heavy book that's been filled with notes with a bit _too _much force.

"Of course, Chrom. Enjoy your breakfast." Chrom chews on the inside of his cheek, he shouldn't have said something like that. They've all been stressed, with the threat of Risen and a potential war brewing by the east, Robin's attitude just simply doesn't help.

Yes, Robin's always had the… Offensive personality, so he knows that what the man says is nothing like his actual self.

"Wait, Robin. I didn't mean it like-" His sentence is cut off as Robin calmly picks up the massive book and slides in carefully into a drawer before literally smashing it shut. Chrom swears he can see splinters landing onto the floor. There's no emotion present on the tactician's face, nothing but a stone-cold flat expression.

"You have a few minutes for _breakfast_, Chrom-" Robin spits the word out as if it runs a blade on his tongue. "I suggest you hurry."

Chrom obeys, hurriedly leaving the tent in regret.

* * *

Robin is an asshole.

Lissa comes to that statement as she watches the man kick aside a downed Vaike to finish off a bandit. The kicked man in question ends up rolling quite far into the undergrowth; branches, rock, thorns and brambles scratching at his bare skin.

They've offered to help with an ongoing bandit problem while they wait for the tournament, having arrived a week early means that they've got a week to help out and train. So here they are, ankles deep in snow as they protect a small village from being burned to the ground.

Their strategy is flawless - having infantry push forward slowly with constant healing while the cavalry flank the sides with archers and mages, too far away for any flames to scare the steeds.

But their tactician himself? He's got more flaws than tangles in her morning bedhead.

Lissa has no problems getting along with the tactician. Perhaps she just has too much energy for him to handle, so he tolerates her presence. She's pretty sure she's the closest thing Robin has to a friend in the Shepherds, seeing as she's the only one who bothers to put up with his… Well. _Bullshit_.

She's helped him a couple of times, brought some books from the library when he stays up, helped herself to some of his- made them both a _wonderful _tea to distract him and he's helped her too. The occasional bakery gift left at the foot of her bedroom door is obviously his doing, no matter how many times he declines and some of her own papers have all been spellchecked and proofread, although the corrections are practically invisible. Lissa had only found out when she intentionally spelled a curse word wrong.

But yes, he's still an asshole. Maybe a slightly nicer one, but nobody knows that. He's just an asshole to them.

"_Get out the way!_" Lissa feels a gloved hand clamp down onto her shoulder before she's unceremoniously tossed into a snowdrift, popping her head above the snow in a righteous fury, she turns to see Robin, with an ungloved hand grasping a bandit's face. The man thrashes against his grip, slicing at his arm clumsily with the blade in hand.

"_Render._" He whispers, his right-hand flashes with an ominous violet as Lissa hears a sickening crunch, the bandit's face collapsing in on itself as the entire body dissolves to ash.

It's Robin's magic - strangely the only one he can wield. Its power is limited to a meter at best, resulting in the tactician having an extremely close-combat style. He doesn't even use a sword, instead choosing to use a dagger to parry before reaching forward with his hand.

"_What was that for?!_" Lissa cries out, feeling the icy water trickle down her spine. Robin's magic _was _terrifying to see the first time, but she's long grown used to it. "You didn't have to throw me, did you?" She shivers in her drenched clothing, watching Robin shudder in pleasure to the vampiric spell that heals his cuts.

"You were in the way." Lissa's no therapist, but she knows that something's happened to Robin earlier. He's more offensive, less caring and simply being an _asshole-plus_. Not that Lissa would say it out loud. Really.

"And Vaike! You kicked him into there on purpose, didn't you?!" She gestures to the man, who's currently being healed by Maribelle. He takes a single look at Robin and gives him the finger, he isn't pleased. Lissa gives him a strained smile before turning back to Robin.

Robin cocks his head in return to the rude gesture before turning his attention back to the fray.

"He was in the way, the bandit I killed could have been a threat to Kellam if they got close enough with that axe of theirs." They're slowly but surely gaining the upper hand as each bandit is overcome through teamwork.

"Kellam? Wait, was he there-" Lissa scans the image before her briefly, focusing on the appearance of one that she's all but burned into her mind. Sure enough, he pops into existence, literally right next to where Vaike had been kicked. "What the-"

Her question is ignored as an arrow finds itself embedded in Stahl's steed, both the knight and mount crashing into a pile of snow alongside Virion, who ends up being surrounded by hungry swordsmen as he loses his protection.

Robin curses in a string of words that could even get Vaike's approval had he not literally kicked the man while he was down. If she didn't know before then Lissa now knows that something must've happened in the morning before they left. Was it Frederick's Hell Hour? Was it because Sully had been on cooking duty?

"Stay here, heal the front line if they get damaged, don't come crying to me if you get hurt." She scoffs, folding her arms as the tactician sprints off to their allies' direction.

"Come crying? I'd rather eat my own staff rather than come crying to _you_…" Nevertheless, she takes her position, continuously using her heal as they crush the resistance. She pointedly ignores Robin's shouted orders before several more nauseating crunches accompany the clashing of swords.

Lissa smiles evilly at the sight of an unsuspecting myrmidon, in her mind's eye; the man's face is replaced by Robin's.

She brings down her stave with godly might, and almost cracks the man's skull in the process. Leaving the man to stumble around in a daze before collapsing, she rejoins the frontlines, continuing as if nothing had ever happened.

Yes, Robin is an asshole. But she has a staff.

* * *

R-Robin… Robin is an asshole!

Sumia lets out a quiet 'eep' and hides behind the wagon as the shivering tactician storms forward, evidently furious with _something_. She's almost terrified by the fact that he might have heard her voice her own thoughts. She'd expect that, after all.

Robin's worse than the fat, ugly tactician mentioned in _Knight of the Dance _and the traitorous schemer in _Pegasus Girls_. He's the literal embodiment of 'lack of empathy' and 'uncaring'.

Sure, he's not that bad to look at. As long as he isn't glaring at you, mocking you, in at least a mile radius of you and as long as you don't know who he _truly _is. Sumia absently brushes the mane of the pegasus she'd picked up on their way to Ferox. At least his tactics work, she shrugs. As long as it gets them to victory, then she can both win and have no contact with the vile man at all.

Not that she has personally spoken to him at all, though. But from what she can gather from pure observation alone, she can safely conclude that Robin isn't the typical prince of Ylisse.

"_Achoo!_" Lissa somehow manages to retain the grace of a princess while sneezing, rubbing her nose on the sleeve of the strangely-familiar coat that _isn't _hers. Sumia slows her pace down so that she's walking beside her as Maribelle does the same.

"Are you quite alright, dear? I saw the fall you took while fighting. Quite the nasty piece of work, isn't he?" Maribelle tuts, offering a handkerchief to the princess. "Are you cold? Do you need another change of clothes?" Sumia stays quiet, Maribelle's much better at taking care of things than she is.

"Nah… I think I got this handled- _Achoo! -_ with this coat and all-" Lissa looks like a toddler wearing her father's clothes with how small she is compared to the size of the coat. Sumia takes in its appearance as the princess waves the sleeves around like whips, she's almost entranced at how the gold lining dances on the sunlight-

Wait.

_Wait._

Maribelle seems to have taken notice too, as her eyes widen slightly in surprise. Maybe fear.

"Lissa, dear." Maribelle sounds like she's delivering horrifying news to a patient. "Do you know what coat that is? In fact, _who _it belongs to?"

Lissa replies by sneezing into the sleeve again, much to their horror.

"Oh no…" Sumia finally speaks up. Lissa's poked the dragon, she's challenged the wyverns, she's exposing the fat and ugly tactician. She's… She's… She's…

She's not going to live until the end of the day.

"Lady Sumia? A word, please." Maribelle pulls Sumia aside, leaving Lissa there to continue sneezing into _Robin's _prized coat. They've slowed their pace so much that Chrom and Frederick - who have been chatting pleasantly while trailing the group - raise an eyebrow.

"_Does she know what she's done?!_" Maribelle gives the two a friendly wave as Sumia shyly does the same. Maribelle's lowered her voice to a frightening whisper.

"_I don't think so-" _They take a moment as Lissa sneezes once more into Robin's most prized possession.

They don't even have time to think of a plan, or an alibi, or _anything_. Because Robin's already striding towards Lissa with a _pissed _expression. Sumia's pegasus has retreated to where she and Maribelle are while Sully and Stahl peek over the wagon that they sit on top of.

"Oh no…" Sumis repeats her initial words in a low moan, half tempted to call for Chrom to help with the situation. Perhaps her Captain will only lose an arm. She'd still love him anyway.

"Oh, hi Robin!" Lissa chirps towards the tactician, who's wearing nothing more than a thin shirt and trousers. It doesn't help that the shirt's wet, because Sumia can see the scandalous signs of lean muscle through the shirt, all the way down to his chest and-

"I came back to get my coat." He states simply, but _anyone _watching the interaction can see the fury _rolling _off of him. "But it appears to have been… _Soiled_." His expression doesn't change, which somehow terrifies her more.

"Uh… _Oops?_" Sumia doesn't know how in Naga's divine name Lissa manages to stay easygoing in Robin's presence, she's arguably the only one who hasn't ever snapped to Robin's attitude… Probably. "I'll have it cleaned, no biggie."

"I'm sure you will." They watch in horror as he raises his right hand, reaching for her face. Sumia knows that this is the end of Lissa as she knows it, that they're too far away to stop the incoming calamity.

Robin flicks Lissa's forehead, causing a resounding '_Yowch!' _from the sniffling girl.

"Tomorrow, four in the morning. _Dried._" He stalks off, unaware of the two ladies sighing in relief as he disappears amongst the chatting Shepherds.

Sumia almost laughs at the relief that _really _shouldn't be there in the first place, there's hardly any reason Robin would suddenly commit murder, right? Yeah?

"_**Sumia."**_

Naga, even her pegasus starts at Robin's calamitous voice as his left-hand lands onto her shoulder. "I have words for you, a moment. If you please." He jerks his free hand to the storage wagon in the front, not even acknowledging Maribelle's presence before he walks off towards said wagon.

"Oh dear." Maribelle sounds a lot less relieved than two seconds ago. "Oh dear." She repeats.

Stahl gives her a concerned glance, Sully gives her an awkward thumbs up. Virion gives his usual smile and Donnel salutes solemnly.

_Goodbye, my friends. It was wonderful knowing you._

Sumia sends an awkward smile to her Captain before climbing into the storage wagon, her heartbeat spiking madly.

At least let her keep her life, please?

* * *

Okay, Chrom is following Sumia because he is worried that Robin is an asshole. Okay? Not for any other reason, merely concern for her wellbeing.

He leaves Frederick with Maribelle before striding towards the wagon, fully intending on stopping whatever madness that Robin intends to create.

For Sumia's wellbeing, of course. Because Robin - not always - is an asshole.

Quietly trailing the back of the cart, he turns his attention to the two sitting individuals, straining his princely ears to catch _anything_. Stahl gives him a strange look before returning to his blueberry muffins.

"First of all." Robin drawls, shivering slightly. Oh, Chrom sees it now. He can clearly see the slim muscle underneath that _sopping, _wet, undry and _cold _shirt. He can clearly see how Sumia's eyes cautiously dart up to Robin's before back down to that _sopping, wet, undry, cold, uncomfortable, disgus-_

Sumia's wellbeing. Robin asshole. Sumia's wellbeing. Robin asshole. Chrom repeats the mantra in his head, the pair continue their chat; completely unsuspecting of a spying prince.

"First of all, I want to say that what you did just there - diving into the back to pick up Virion as we fought - was _beyond stupid."_ Chrom has half the mind to yell at them, but he refrains. Sumia winces with every syllable that Robin says, shrinking herself into the seat as much as possible.

Chrom has no problem with the tactician, really. He even likes to think that they get on well when they play their games of chess in the evening with a glass of wine. It's just that he's been irked by him after this morning and he's sure that Robin's irked too.

No problem. Yep. Really.

"But second of all-" Robin's tone softens considerably, so much that Chrom almost headbutts the wagon in shock. He hasn't heard the tactician speak like that in the entire time he's known him. "I want to thank you."

Sumia seems to be just as flabbergasted as her Captain hidden under them. "Thank?! _Thank?!_" Her face looks like a cherry tomato and she's suddenly started to avoid looking anywhere in Robin's general direction.

"While what you did was absolutely stupid, foolhardy and suicidal - something that only an idiot would do, really-" Robin pauses his drawl and meets with her eye to eye, a - _By the gods - _ghost of a smile on his face. "You saved not only my life but the lives of Stahl, Virion and Stahl's steed. That's something to be proud about."

Okay, Chrom has a problem with the tactician.

"W-Wha- I mean- Yea-No! I mean! Yes! No! Thank you? Me?" Sumia's been turned into a blubbering mess, she's even started to fan her face in the freezing air. "I mean, anyone else would do the same so there's really no need for-"

"Nevertheless, thanks is necessary." Robin nods slightly to the flushed lady, she really can't maintain eye contact with him. "In fact…" He leans forward slightly, whispering something into Sumia's ear.

Chrom has to stop himself from stabbing the wagon with Falchion as Sumia's eyes light up and a bright grin replaces her nervous smile, although the blush still remains.

"You'd really do that?!" She almost squeals, a joyful expression painted on her face. Robin nods slowly, the ghostly smile still present as she laughs. A sound that _no-one _expected, as Stahl turns from his muffins to face her and even Frederick raises an eyebrow. No-one apart from Lissa simply _laughs _in the presence of Robin, literally no-one at all. Not even Virion, who has been rejected a total of forty-five times consecutively to play chess, now that Chrom thinks about it.

"We'll wait until after the tournament, nothing better than having it after a meal." Robin graciously allows Sumia to take the lead of the conversation, her nervous expression slowly breaking down as they continue to chat, much to the chagrin of the prince of Ylisse.

* * *

**Support Rank:**

**Chrom: C**

**Lissa:** **C**

**Sumia: C**

* * *

**An idea of sorts that came to my mind, I took a look at the discarded possibilities when starting From the Ashes and put together this: Where Robin is quite literally the textbook definition of a 'tsundere'**

**Chapter length for this story will remain consistent, although I am extending the length of chapters for From the Ashes, it's an entirely different behemoth in its own right.**


	2. Chapter 2

Robin is apparently an asshole - a slang term used to describe an irritating person.

Miriel adjusts the rim of her glasses as she walks down the corridor of Arena Ferox's designated area for the Eastern Champions. She runs through the general facts of the tactician she's supposed to fetch, formulating a plan of neutral confrontation.

A tactician who fights on the frontlines, with a dagger and magic that Miriel is still unfamiliar with, but she's already deduced its inner workings to be stronger than a _Nosferatu _with significantly less range.

He has been with the Shepherds for only two weeks and is quite frankly universally disliked by every member. An impressive record, if anything.

He has white hair, strange purple eyes, a coat with Plegian symbols that can date back to early Grimleal texts and quite strangely enough - he suffers from amnesia.

She pauses in front of his room, hand raised to knock as she quickly pools together all of the data that she requires. A polite manner of approach is most favorable and not allow his insults to anger her are key skills imperative to this mission.

She knocks once sharply, the sound echoing down the empty hall as she waits patiently for any sign of response.

None.

She knocks twice this time, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The only reason she's been sent to pick Robin up is because of how _odd_ it is. The man is usually seen in the very early hours in the morning and will never miss breakfast - mostly because its the only meal he'll probably get in the day. It's arguably the only thing positive that Miriel can judge within him - that he's _punctual_.

The smug Lissa wrapped up in Robin's freshly-dried coat at the dining area also suggests that the man wasn't seen in his usual morning walk.

Testing the door and finding it unlocked to her surprise, Miriel quickly peeks to her sides, ensuring that nobody's following her before stepping inside, letting the door shut gently.

There are papers _everywhere_. The desk is completely masked beneath thick books, rolled maps and papers with Robin's signature scribbled writings. Quills and empty ink pots lie unattended on the ground and her ankles sink into the mound of papers like a snowdrift.

A candle that dangles precariously between two wedged books gives her enough evidence that the man's spent a long time awake; it's burned everything. Even the melted wax that dripped onto the plate below.

There's aa half-full mug of tea - cold, Miriel brushes her fingers against the rim. No wetness, which means that it hasn't been touched in _hours_.

Halfway across the room, between the small study and the bedroom, there lies a damp shirt and pair of trousers, soaking the scribbled papers beneath. A hacking cough from the next room tells Miriel everything that she needs to know about the whereabouts of Robin.

The idiot's caught a cold.

Hanging the disregarded clothes on the doorknob, Miriel gingerly picks up the soaked papers that were hidden below. Smudged ink is _everywhere _and she can only make out at least tiny bits of what's been written. A plan of attack and defense from their current position, in case Flavia decides to betray them - underneath is a contingency plan to have the royal family escape on horseback should the first plan fail, underneath _that _is how the Shepherds can distract the Feroxian army with their mages and archers _and underneath that _is a plan for keeping each and every Shepherd alive in time for Ylissean reinforcements.

All for a potential scenario that has an _abysmally _small chance of happening.

Miriel would chuckle, but the amount of detail that their tactician puts in is _disturbing_, there are no faults whatsoever but even Miriel thinks that these border on the line of obsession. She gets another rare glimpse into his character, looking through each pairing, position, ambush and spell to use in specific situations.

A particularly brutal series of coughs ricochet through the small room before being accompanied by a low groan. Miriel sighs, setting the sheets down onto the desk beside her. Robin seems to appear as less of an 'asshole' and more of an 'idiot', so to say.

They had even been offered warm towels and a fresh change of clothes after they had returned last night with medicinal teas to stave away any potential illness - the tournament _is _the day after tomorrow, hence why Flavia attempts to keep her fighters in top condition.

Miriel remembers seeing Robin in his soaked clothing as they dismounted, he had given them all a once-over, reminded Lissa to wash his coat before disappearing into his room; shrugging off any offers to help at all.

She knocks onto the door of his bedroom twice, this time he _does _respond albeit with a sharp edge.

"What is it?" She can hear him stifle a cough and attempt to force his husky voice to sound healthy. "I'm busy with work, so leave if you're here for some mundane reason or if you're Lissa."

"Work? I assumed that the study was next door." Miriel ignores any protest that forms in the man's throat as she steps in. The bedroom is a stark contrast to the study, there's not a single bit of mess inside and everything is still the way that Flavia had intended it to be. "How do you fare, Robin?"

She watches him pull up his covers - thank Naga, because he's most likely _not _dressed - and mutter '_Naga damn you, Miriel' _under his breath. She almost calls him out on the comment just as another series of painful coughs wrack the tactician.

"You're ill." She states as if she's conversing with a toddler.

"And you're annoying, so?" Robin grumbles, not even bothering to fix his bedhead as he suppresses a sneeze. He sits up, propping himself against the velvet pillow - which gives Miriel quite a pleasant sight of the male upper body if she blocks out his face and voice in mind's eye.

Miriel sighs in mild annoyance. Does he realize that the tournament is the day after? What good is he to the Shepherds if their tactician falls ill _before _the battle?

"Need I remind you that our battle in the tournament is the day after tomorrow? Chrom still needs a full analysis of enemy fighters and a drafted list of who's to fight." Robin scowls, he shuffles in the bed before producing a small stack of papers from beneath his pillow. Even Miriel is surprised at the man's tenacity, there's a full sheet of potential fighters - the equipment they require, their current status, the partners they work best with… _Everything_.

"Is that all?" He huffs, burying himself back into the thick folds as Miriel glances over the information, "If so, then _piss off_. Tell _Chrom to go fuc_\- that I'll be ready for the tournament."

"What about the analysis of enemy fighters-"

"Study. The first sheets on the desk on the left side facing the door. The last two pages-" He suppresses a sneeze and pulls the covers up further. "-The last two pages are on the ground by the tea, next to the trade book that's open on page 32." He gestures to the door. "Shoo."

She leaves the man to his rest, but a small part of her brain - a moral standpoint, one that she has nurtured carefully over years - states that she probably - _probably _can't leave him there.

Miriel dedicates the next hour to neatly stacking all of his papers on the desk in alphabetical order, empties the cold mug to brew herbal tea and dries his clothes with a spare fire tome. She then ensures after each meal that the tactician at least has _something _to eat.

Much to everyone's befuddlement (and disappointment), Robin recovers by the morning of the tournament, snatching the coat that Lissa has worn for the past two days like a trophy. Miriel finds him seated in the study, sipping at a steaming mug of tea while scribbling down new notes.

Strangely enough, just after breakfast as Chrom announces who will be fighting, she finds a neat pile of books at the foot of her room's door, a generous mix of fiction and non-fiction - all that she's never even _seen _before. She swears there's even a book on Valmese tradition inside next to a study on Ylissean architecture.

Miriel concludes that Robin is an asshole, but attaches a mild tone of endearment to the insult.

* * *

Robin is an admirable man, Virion gives the tactician props. He just an infamous streak of being an _asshole_.

He spies the tactician stalking off to his room after breakfast, several books in his arms, It's a wonderful plan that he's made, using soldiers comfortable with each other to ensure that every fight they have is a one-on-one.

Virion does what Virion does best, socialize.

"Robin! How about a game of che-"

"Go away."

46 - 0, he watches Robin deposit the books by the entrance to a door, brush his roes before continuing a brisk walk towards the training fields, no doubt to prepare for the battle in a few hours. Virion decides that following him is a good way to spend his afternoon.

Only a handful of Shepherds were chosen to fight, so the rest merely have a free week in Ferox. He had considered spending the day in the marketplace to find a gift for dear Cherche, but then again; whatever he'd send would get chomped on by Minerva.

"Brilliant day, isn't it?" He's promptly ignored by Robin, who's begun performing rudimentary swipes with his dagger, occasionally mixing up his attacks with a grab with his right hand. "You've recovered from your cold, I presume?"

"_Render_." Of course, _Render _does nothing to an inanimate object, as it has no life to take. Robin retracts his hand, obviously satisfied with his work.

"The scenery in Ferox truly is one to behold - there's something… Romantic about a good snow climb, enjoying a meal atop a mountain… Getting hot and frisky within an abandoned hut after a surprise snowstorm hits…" Virion gestures to the Shepherd's tactician overdramatically.

"Not to mention that Feroxian women are quite _exquisite_. A distaste for noble etiquette in a continent, _beautiful _muscles and skin-" Virion sighs in content, Robin performs a complex parry on an invisible blade, sidesteps the dummy, performs a leg sweep and pins it in a headlock, his hand greedily taking ahold of its face.

"_Render._"

"Oh, the woes of being here for only a fleeting moment… I wonder what it would feel like to be pinned by such a strong woman…?" Virion smirks as Robin finally pauses his exercise, an irritated expression on his face.

Virion realizes his mistake a moment too late.

"I think it'd feel-" Robin's a blur, a flawless activation of _Pass_. Virion doesn't even see the kick until it's already in motion. "_-something like this._"

Virion takes the kick, grunting in pain as he rolls back into the dirt. Okay, maybe direct assault was something he _didn't _expect but should've. He gasps for breath, clutching at his stomach as he grins up to Robin. _Finally_, a reaction.

"Stand, three seconds," Robin states simply, falling into a closed stance, ready to lash out should the moment arise. "_Three, two, one-"_

Virion gets up on time, manages a chortle before rolling away from the brutal haymaker Roin sends his way. In a match of pure agility, he easily has the upper hand with the skill to match his speed.

_Skill with a bow_, to be precise.

He doesn't see the overhead kick until he feels the sharp pain in his stomach. He lashes out instinctively, catching Robin off guard as he stumbles back.

_Good._ Virion does adore a good spar with Robin - it's strange to think that he'd be resorting to such crude combat tactics. Heck, he hasn't even sparred with _Cherche _in all of their time spent together.

He doesn't know why, but a good fistfight with the other man is the _perfect _way for the two to bond, not over a chessboard under evening twilight. He can even see Lissa and Chrom watching them with wide eyes by the entrance to the fields.

Not wasting his chance, he presses the advantage, tripping up the man before slamming an elbow in his stomach. His efforts are rewarded with a strangled curse and a sloppy fist to the jaw.

Robin activates _Pass _again, this time darting out of Virion's range before sheathing the dagger he's drawn. Virion blinks, Robin hadn't had the weapon out when fighting him, so where…?

_Ah._ He chuckles grimly, fingering the broken drawstring on his bow. _The bastard._ Nevertheless, he is undeterred by the loss of his weapon, this time charging into the man, feeling _Acrobat _kick in; he leaps over the man - much to his surprise… Probably - and throws out the strongest punch he can do.

It's essentially checkmate.

Roin performs an incredible parry, completely stopping Virion's fist by sidestepping and locking his arm in between his left arm while his right-hand lands directly on Virion's cheek.

Virion knows that he's dead, that Robin merely needs to mutter the incantation before he's reduced to a pile of ash.

"I give, you win this time." He shakes his head to the tactician, wincing as he flexes his arm. "I didn't realize you'd go for the bow." The score's still 46:0, something that normally would deter him - strangely enough, it acts as a _motivator_.

He had started their spars anyway, with his condition being Robin play him in a game of Chess while the tactician instead chose him to do a certain task for him; usually fetching sweet treats from the Ylissean bakery, strangely enough.

"Of course, it'd be hard to approach if you started a ranged fight - anything beyond two meters _can _and _will _result in my defeat," Robin states, gesturing to the quiver of arrows hanging by Virion's waist. "I would go for the quiver, but this is a spar - no need to damage equipment."

The duke gives him an incredulous look, showing him the damaged bow. "No need to damage the equipment?"

He swears he almost sees a smile flicker on the emotionless face.

"That's easily replaceable."

* * *

Frederick has decided; with an entirely objective opinion, with no personal thoughts attached to it in _any _manner: That Robin is an asshole.

"_Ladies and Gentlemen! May I present to you, this year's Khan Tournament!" _He's starting to get irritated with their tactician, who has yet to issue orders. Instead, the man sits cross-legged on the coarse dirt, waving sarcastically to their opponents. The female announcer's begun announcing the participants' names, bellowing them out to the screaming crowd.

"_The Vaike!" _Said man seems to adore the fame, raising his arms in approval of the roaring sound. "_Miriel!" _She scowls up to them, tapping her fingers against her _Elwind _tome impatiently,

"Robin." Frederick finally snaps down to the seated tactician. "Would you _kindly _stand up and take this seriously? Your current image reflects extremely poorly on that of milord Chrom's."

"_Kellam!-" _The announcer pauses, obviously confused as to why she can't find the said man. "_Oh well… Frederick!" _He can see the rest of the Shepherds beside Flavia, all cheering and whooping wildly alongside the crowd save Maribelle. Naga, even Lissa's singing badly alongside the song that the younger men below are screaming.

Screw Robin, the Shepherds themselves are ruining the very image of Ylisse.

He considers having his steed kick Robin, but the warning look in Chrom's eyes tells him to quite simply _don't_. Robin remains sitting, absent-mindedly doodling in the ground. His dagger hasn't even been drawn.

"_Robin!_" The tactician doesn't even react, adding little swirls to his drawing. Frederick's lance arm twitches as he eyes the approaching champions. Muscular Feroxian soldiers of all genders, he even spots a foreign champion wielding a blade that seems to sing as it cuts through the air.

"_And finally… The crown prince of Ylisse himself. CHROM!_" An explosion of sound from the already-loud crowd seems to momentarily startle Robin, he stretches on the ground as the musicians by the Arena edge prepare their grand beginning.

The rules are simple; incapacitate your opponent, disarm them and force them to surrender or just _kill_.

"Robin. Move. _Now._" Chrom sighs, evidently irritated by Robin's lack of care. He gives a good one-eyed glare to the tactician, who responds with the finger. He's happy that he received such a detailed roster the night before - but they _do _need field tactics to beat Basilio's team.

"Robin." Frederick adjusts his position on his steed. He's quite frankly done with Robin's shenanigans. "Shall I have you arrested for a capital offense should milord lose Feroxian support due to your hands?" The white-haired man sends a scathing glance in his direction.

"How about I have you stick your pointy little lance up your-"

They really don't like each other.

"_Robin._" Miriel scolds, that seems to get him to listen, weirdly enough. He pulls himself up, straightens his posture and draws his weapon. Frederick manages to take a look at the idle drawing that the man's made before it's crushed by his foot. A near-perfect representation of Arena Ferox, with little dots on each side. Possibly signifying troops.

Frederick raises an eyebrow to Robin. Robin responds by sending an irritated glance. Frederick is reminded by the fact that no-one would miss Robin if he disappeared, so that thought brings him solace. Robin kicks a pebble in his general direction. Frederick is once again tempted to skewer him. Robin is an asshole. Frederick is merely a protector.

They can see the two Khans at the top, sitting in their podiums. Both of them holding onto each side of a colossal battering ram beside a bell, moments from sending the colossal signal to start the fight.

Robin instantly changes persona, throwing out orders at a lightning-fast pace - so fast that Frederick almost misses a couple.

"_Miriel, accompany Kellam - he'll protect you while you go for the pair of lancers over there." _Robin points to a duo in the distance. Miriel gives a single nod and (presumably) shifts over to Kellam's location, wherever he is. "_Vaike is with Frederick, climb onto Frederick's steed and pressure that mage and swordmaster over there. If that mage gets through then everything's lost." _He sends a single nod to Chrom, both of them instantly at each other's backs.

"So what do we do?"

Robin eyes the foreign swordmaster warily as _Marth _steps from the shadows, the false Falchion in his hands. The pair seem strangely distant, for a fighting duo. He's not surprised by the swordsman's appearance - he'd walked in on him changing by accident earlier in the men's room, much to the other man's strange discomfort.

"Fight Marth, I'll figure out the enemy's patterns soon enough." Robin's right-hand twitches in anticipation, while the strange mark on his left glows through his glove. He gives a single nod to the Shepherds, who instantly move forward, splitting into their pairs and taking their places.

Chrom flourishes his sword, Robin rolls up his coat's sleeves, Miriel cracks open her tome, Vaike grins threateningly and Frederick twirls his lance.

Kellam's probably doing Kellam things.

Flavia and Basilio lift the massive ram with their incredible strength, slamming the slab of wood into the equally-colossal bell. The sound almost makes the ground shake, drowning out any pretense of music that the orchestra below had started.

The tournament begins.

**It's almost slothful as to how slow I'm progressing with From the Ashes. Ideas are cherrypicked, scrapped and re-picked. I'm now trying to keep a balance on the information given - to quite literally prevent information overload.**

**Nevertheless, the chapter's half-finished. I've merely taken to writing slightly longer chapters for it - perhaps around the 7k mark.**

**Other than that, I surprise myself with how easily I portray Robin to be an asshole.**

**It's quite fun, really.**

**I didn't give much thought to Robin's pairing. Perhaps I'll do a poll soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

"So of course, I notice immediately that the grounds we're fighting on is coarse, made of sand and dust. There's this scary swordsman in the distance who's been eyeing me besides that Marth guy - he totally has the hots for Chrom, by the way. The scary man's Lon'qu, we just got him too when we were coming back."

"Yes?"

"So yeah, the bell rings and the orchestra starts playing and it's _beautiful_. Sometimes a guy's thrown off the stage and into some poor violinist, but it's probably an honor or something because the orchestra just keeps on playing."

"Of course."

"So with my tactics, I order Frederick and Kellam to deal with the myrmidons while Miriel snipes the enemy mages so they don't take our tanks out - no matter how much I want Freddy to take an _Arcfire_."

"That would be sad, yes."

"And then once that's done, we see Lon'qu just quietly walking towards us - kind of terrifying, really. But Chrom decides it's a good idea to leave me alone with the man to fight Marth - At that point, I'm sure the feelings are mutual."

"Yes, of course."

"And then I realize that Miriel's done with the mages, so I come up with a brilliant plan using wind magic and the sandy groun- Are you even listening?"

Emmeryn blinks, setting down the teacup as Robin interrupts his monologue to ask a question.

"Yes?"

She has her questions too.

Such as why her brother's tactician is in her room at _two_ in the morning.

"So like I was saying, we combined the power of _Elwind _with the natural weather and cause a sandstorm-"

Emmeryn decides at that point to brew some more tea, sleep forgotten.

* * *

Perhaps Robin is… Unique?

Maribelle presses herself against a pillar in fright as said tactician stalks past her, arms full with bags of bakery goods - it's only six in the morning and the man's _already _finished his errands (and quite probably finished his wallet, too).

Nope, Maribelle isn't _afraid _of him. Indeed! All she is doing is following the emotional hierarchy set by her brain - and whenever she lays her eyes on the tactician the emotion atop said hierarchy is best represented by the word '_escape'._

_Not fear._

That emotion hasn't been completely amplified after watching the show that the Shepherds had demonstrated the day before, utterly annihilating their enemy without any deaths on either side with the victory to boot! No fear! _None _at all!

"Maribelle. What are you doing?"

_**Death has come**_**.**

"Oh! Robin! Hello!" She's terrifie- _surprised_ by his uncanny ability to suddenly appear behind people. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"I was asking what were you doing."

She doesn't want to turn to face him, rather, she _can't. _Her legs are strangely frozen to the ground and her kneecaps seem to be the slightest tad wobbly.

"You're hiding behind a pillar and acting creepy." Maribelle shivers, those words seem like they'd suit someone else rather than her. After all, behavior such as that would only suit something distasteful like a _dark _mage, yes?

"I had dropped my parasol! You see… And… I was picking it up!"

She literally drops her parasol in front of him and picks it back up, brushing off any invisible dust as if nothing had ever happened.

Maribelle keeps her eyes on the head of a deer that hangs by the wall, the glassy eyes stare back. "Dearie me, how silly."

She can sense Robin's gaze into her soul. Her fight or flight state has been rendered to an _Accept your fate _state. Still refusing to turn around, she understands _nothing _when Sumia hums that the man's rather chipper at their teatimes.

She feels more like a mouse being stalked by a snake.

"Okay." He states simply, before brushing past her uncaringly as he strides down the corridor, ignoring Kellam entirely as the man attempts to greet him.

Maribelle's legs feel like giving out, not even facing down two bandits with a broken staff can give her the fear that Robin represents. She almost feels sorry for their enemies, as _every _strategy they come up with seems to be completely demolished by Robin's tactical genius as if he's already prepared for such a situation.

But that's nonsense. Because there'd be no way he could think of _every _situation that a party could take before the battle. Just idle nuances of thought that flit through her mind.

"Good morning, Sir Kellam." She manages to breathe out her condolences through a polite greeting, watching the man's expression brighten at having _someone _acknowledge him.

Her day's begun to a frightening start, though she refuses to recall any details of such an incident later on at breakfast while Lissa attempts to loosen her lips with a bag of fresh pastries.

* * *

"Get out."

"Nope!"

"I'm serious, get out. Now."

"Uh… Hello? Nope means nope? A dot is a dot? A line is a line? Chrom is Chrom?"

Lissa knows she's getting on his nerves and _oh by Naga _does it feel good. She's propped herself up onto the table that he's writing on, with a massive shit-eating grin on her face as she deliberately lets crumbles from the cookie she's munching fall on the impeccable surface.

"I'm doing something, young princess. It's called _working._ Though I doubt your immature mind can handle such stress." Ordinarily, she'd take offense to that. But this is _Robin. _"I'd appreciate it if you stopped dropping crumbs around my work."

Normally, she'd leave him at this point and go find something else to do - have tea with Maribelle, talk about bizarre things with Vaike or bully Chrom. But she now has a justified reason for her actions. Totes.

Because she hasn't seen the tactician appear to a proper meal in the last two days.

"C'mon! Take a break! We're done with all the Ferox stuff, yeah? Go have a nice time, yeah?"

Robin ignores her, choosing to dab his quill into a near-empty inkpot.

"Get some nice clothes, yeah?"

He scribbles something down, brushing aside the crumbs.

"Enjoy yourself for once, yeeeaaahh?" She drawls, happily watching his eye tick with barely-restrained anger. "_Yeahhh-_"

* * *

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Robin. Why are you drinking _gravy_?"

"Sustenance."

"... Oh."

Stahl decides that leaving the food hall with his plate of venison is the best choice for survival.

* * *

"I'm sorry. _What?! _I thought I heard something about _inviting Plegia into Ylisstol _during these times. Want to correct me on that, Robin?" Robin idly notes that Falchion seems to be a lot sharper than it was a couple of seconds ago.

"Well, to be completely accurate - it's for a single night and anyone who receives an invitation will be allowed to attend a formal banquet inside the cas-"

"_Are you out of your mind?!"_

"Possibly-" His eyes widen in alarm as Chrom's hand drifts dangerously near his blade. "_I have good reason_ _to!"_

Oh, good. That stays the blade for a couple of seconds.

"Is that so?" Chrom seats himself back down across the table, his posture once again relaxed. "Mind telling me it, then?"

Robin doesn't blame him - he's been here for only about three weeks now as a strategist and his strategies have been… Eccentric, to say the least. Chrom's no idiot, he'd hardly let a rival nation walk into his own freely off of advice from a man quite possibly from said nation.

Flicking through his little blue book of strategies, he lands right at the one he needs. Perfect.

"It's bait." He smirks at the prince's confusion - of course no-one can understand his strategy unless he explains it.

Poor fools.

"We've seen recently from the borders of Ylisse where Plegian bandits have been poking at the towns lining the area, bandit raids - that I stress with utmost importance - that are being directed by the Mad King, Gangrel."

"How-"

"Easy, I've taken a look at the data from the past six months or so - read different emergency reports given to the guards, seen the bounties taken in Ylisstol, mapped out the skirmish areas and so on-"

"All in…" Chrom peeks out the window and into the moonlight. "Three days?"

"Yes." Robin taps his fingers against the desk irritably. It'd be great to meet someone who doesn't interrupt his strategy for _once _in his life. "As I was saying, once you look at the data - pages fifty-five to sixty-ish, I'm not too sure - but once you've seen the data then you can clearly see a pattern."

Chrom picks up the blue book, his eyes drifting over the contents curiously.

"Bandits on wolves?"

"_Pages sixty-five to seventy_."

"Ah."

Robin indulges himself in some peace and quiet as the prince reads up in the flickering candlelight while occasionally letting out a quiet whistle or a dry chuckle. It's been a tiring past few days, planning out his next maneuver as more and more reports of bandits from Plegia lay in. But missing a couple of nights is fine if it's for the sake of Ylisse. For the sake of staying _useful_.

He has to keep working. For Chrom's sake. For the entirety of the Shepherds. For both their safety and to be useful, so he doesn't need to feel unwanted, so he _can be perfe-_

"And what has this got to do with your current strategy?" Chrom's voice breaks through Robin's clouded thoughts as the man automatically scowls in response.

"It's obvious, isn't it? Whoever's directing the strategy at Plegia knows as much as a sheep walking into the slaughterhouse. If they're dumb enough to forget to make their bandits look like _bandits _then they're obviously going to come to this and attempt something-" A yawn breaks his sentence. "- and that something would be like crippling the royal family to kill morale, or to attack our stocks - I can assume it's the first because we have literally everything in surplus within Ylisse… Except for our _exalted bloodline_."

"Ah. I see." Realization dawns upon the prince as a wry grin begins to form on his lips. "You're setting a trap for people setting a trap."

"It's more like exhausting them emotionally because of their thinking that they're walking into a trap that then affects decision-making in later larger battles… But sure. Setting trap for the trap-setters-" Another yawn. "It'll be a formal dinner, they can bring their weapons - and as many guards that they'd like. The more the better."

"The more the better?" That doesn't make sense, couldn't that mean that Gangrel could show up with his entire army?

"The man who shows up with a battalion has no confidence. The man who shows up without is desperate. The man who shows up with the right amount…?"

It's at that moment where Chrom sees the reserved spark of intelligence from his friend that barely anyone notices and the _danger _that follows it.

Not from the threat of any physical danger, Robin can barely wield a shortsword alongside that hand of his. But that rare glint in his eyes with the quiet, smoldering passion reveals Robin's nature to Chrom instantly.

He hasn't seen anyone this… Cunning? Shrewd? Dangerous?

_Twisted_.

He hasn't seen anyone this twisted since his father.

"Who shows up for the right amount…?" Chrom tentatively repeats Robin's question, his hand resting on Falchion out of pure instinct.

Maybe he isn't aware of the effect he has, or maybe it's all part of his plan. But Robin gives him a lazy smirk before plucking the little book out of Chrom's hands.

"The man who shows up with the right amount… _Is ripe for an assassination_."

* * *

Stahl doesn't think that a mess hall is a safe place anymore.

Safe to say, the halls used to be his - a nice place of solitude where he could consume food en masse.

There were no insults hurled, no fights between tactician and prince, there wasn't _food _being tossed across the place - and Stahl always got third helpings.

"_And I've said that we're going with the damned idea! So why are we arguing?!" _Chrom roars out before an empty bowl smacks into his head, Maribelle lets out a quiet '_Oh dear' _and drags Lissa under the table.

"_You're clearly not on board! How can I make a Naga's damned plan when you toss every single suggestion out of my head?!_" Robin's standing on his side of the table, breathing heavily as he glares at Chrom through eyes that are practically being dragged down by the bags beneath.

"_Because rat poison isn't just a simple method!" _Huh. Chrom is scarily accurate with a spoon, a fact learned first-hand from the Shepherd's tactician. The man topples off the table and manages to kick Virion's teacup out of his hand while doing so.

Stahl has no bloody idea on what's going on, while Vaike and Sully are cheering on different sides. Miriel beside him has set up some kind of wind barrier that causes stray objects to bounce off it and Frederick has his face in his hands.

"_Well then WHAT POISON?!"_

"_WHY ARE WE GOING WITH POISON?!"_

Whoops, there goes his broccoli. He watches it fly into the air just before a pair of angry men crash onto the table, fuelled by ambition.

Oh. Lissa's started cheering Robin.

From then on, it just becomes a blur for Stahl as he hastily finishes his steak. Vaike and Sully have joined in the wrestling, Lon'qu's quite literally taken his food out of the building, Lissa's doing an aerial bombardment of sardines while Maribelle's opened up her parasol as a shield.

These are the Shepherds.

At one point Sumia comes in and trips over the two men punching each other, spilling gravy all over the three of them. Now Frederick's pulling Sully and Vaike apart and Virion's cleaning up the remains of a teacup.

"What is going on here?"

Amidst the chaos, Stahl sees one light.

_Exalt Emmeryn_. Standing in her graceful and eloquent glory, her head tilted slightly to the side in confusion at the quite literal scene of carnage before her.

And then one of Lissa's sardines splat on her forehead, leaving a tomato-paste mark on the sacred brand. Miriel sets down her clean bowl and wipes her mouth delicately. Happy with her meal, she lets out a content sigh and lowers the barrier.

The room goes silent.

* * *

"For the record-"

"_Be silent._"

"Ok. Got you. Yep." Chrom withers under Emmeryn's gaze as Robin returns from her bathroom with a wet cloth - how he knows where everything is located is a concern - both equally shamed by the Exalt.

"I'm going to leave this… Here… And…?" Out of everyone that Chrom has interacted with, it's surprising to see that his sister is the one who keeps Robin on a leash.

"Sit. Beside Chrom. _And face the wall_."

"Yes, ma'am." Chrom doesn't see any of the intellect in the tactician's eyes as he obediently sits beside him and rests his forehead against the wall.

Emmeryn is _terrifying _when she smiles.

"Now both of you are going to play nice, apologize to each other and then think about your actions for the next hour, I'll be leaving this room to attend to a meeting with Phila-" She silences Chrom's response with arguably some of the most ominous words he's ever heard. "_I have eyes everywhere_."

"Yes, ma'am." They respond in unison.

Emmeryn lets a small smile grace her lips as she sets aside the cloth before leaving the room, the audible sound of the lock clicking in place before she's gone.

And then they're left in silence. Chrom facing the bed while Robin faces the wall.

He doesn't know when, but at one point one of them starts chuckling and then the other one joins in. It's not long before they're rolling on the ground, wheezing over the most ridiculous event to happen all night.

It's at that point in the night where He and Robin come to a compromise, to only assassinate should Emmeryn's life be in danger in any sort - should the plan, of course, be approved by Emmeryn herself.

The Exalt herself smiles softly, lifting her ears away from the door before continuing down the corridors away from her room.

Perhaps there're some sardines left in the kitchen for dinner.

* * *

_One week later._

_Plegia._

"My lord, an invitation to Ylisstol for a formal banquet - they say that Exalt Emmeryn wishes for trade negotiations." The letter is torn open and scanned by greedy eyeballs. Mad King Gangrel laughs, either in joy or derision - the tactician doesn't know.

"Wonderful! You can come armed? With as many troops as we want?! _Brilliant!_ They just gave us a chance to beat them provided we get past the obvious trap that they've set!"

"So you're saying… We spring the trap and then overwhelm the capital with our forces…?" Aversa purrs, massaging his bag from her position behind his throne. "A cunning idea, should there truly be a trap and enough soldiers. We needn't worry about your safety, as you have me and your dear tactician with us."

"An easy win!" Gangrel laughs, tossing the tiny letter aside. "What do you say to this, tactician?"

The tactician chews her lip nervously, tugging at the sleeves of her (ridiculous) over-sized coat. Gangrel doesn't mind the uncertainty, she's only begun growing as a tactician - at the age of 15 no less! - he already knows what to do, his own plan forming in his head. But it'd be useful to nurture this child, seeing how interested Aversa is in the girl.

"I-I mean… I dunno…" She rakes a hand through her dyed-white hair, eyes flickering between the letter and Gangrel. "It seems like a trap… But at the same time… _It doesn't make sense_."

Yes, she's inexperienced. But they'll show her. He'll show her how wars are won. The Conquerer won't know whats hit him until its too late when he invades in the years to come. She has talent but lacks confidence and experience.

"Come with us then, _Morgan_. And we'll see for ourselves how these Ylisseans conduct themselves in the presence of a King."

* * *

**A lot's changing, and I've always been a military strategy buff so creating different strategies that only make sense to the person who's made them is something I love. That and confuddling my own readers as I make a strategy and implement it, slowly drip-feeding pieces of the puzzle until they can make out the final image themselves. I've always enjoyed that element of mystery, so I _had _to introduce that too along with my strategy - they go hand-in-hand, don't you think? **

**I think the main focus of this story for me at least is to capture different character's personalities in different situations and create strategies that get the reader's attention, the type that makes you think "Ah, I see how it is" when the plan's laid bare- leave a review on any of the elements please, it'd give me a better insight to how I'm doing from an anonymous third-party.**

**I had to update this, simply to state that I haven't forgotten any of my stories, but I'm chipping away at them bit by bit - like how a prisoner cracks his walls each day with a spoon.**

**I did a bad thing where I wrote some of From the Ashes while… Not fully in control of my thought process. And then woke up the next morning without a single scooby about the plot points I opened and closed. Safe to say, I'll refrain from any mind-inhibiting liquids while writing (**_**I'm trying my best to not say alcohol because that makes me look irresponsible, okay? Jeez.)**_

**Don't forget that the poll for Robin's pairing is up on my profile, give that a tick if you want to see who he ends up with.**

**But I think I'm starting to get back into this, a 'writer's block' doesn't exist, they always disappear after you start writing daily, bit by bit. Trust me on that.**

**We'll be back to speed in no time.**

**Apologies for the wait. Thanks for the read.**


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